


Of Horror and Horseshoes

by ozonecologne



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Chinese Mythology & Folklore, Dean is still a hunter, M/M, Set in the season 1 days, human!Cas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-06-29
Packaged: 2018-04-06 20:30:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4235583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ozonecologne/pseuds/ozonecologne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean are working a case that’s got them both stumped. Luckily, a kooky blue-eyed bookstore owner in town offers his assistance.</p><p>Dean falls for him. Fast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Horror and Horseshoes

**Author's Note:**

> Been holding onto this one for over a year. Phew! Thanks for reading, lovelies. Come visit me on [tumblr](http://ozonecologne.tumblr.com) if you want to learn more!

Jeremy stared blankly at the letters etched in stone: _July 2 nd 1960 – September 13th 2005\. _

His phone’s alarm went off, bells chiming from his pocket. Midnight, then. One tear rolled down his cheek and he smiled around it. “Happy birthday, Mom.”

Jeremy stood, leaving the bouquet of wildflowers at the foot of the gravestone, and brushed the dirt from his knees. “I’ll be back soon,” he murmured to the plot of grass. With a small, soft sigh, he turned and walked towards the gates of the cemetery, eerily glinting in the moonlight.

It was unseasonably cold outside, and as he walked Jeremy hugged his sweater closer to himself, pulled his cap down a little further over his eyes. He sighed again, rubbed his face self-consciously, and kicked a rock resting by his toe. He couldn’t have been twenty yards from the gate.

He never made it out.

 

Sam jingled the scratched motel key around in his fist as he puzzled over the records he collected from the police station. “Hey,” Dean called from one of the beds, propped up against the headboard with a beer in his hand and a Hawaii 5-0 marathon running. “What’d you find?”

Sam shook the manila folder. “Hair and skin samples from the cemetery show that the attacker is a Ms. Vivienne Young, address 237 Park Street,” Sam rattled off.

Dean furrowed his brow. “That’s like two blocks from here. That’s good, isn’t it?”

Sam shook his head. “You’d think so.” He sighed. “I just came back from the library and apparently, Vivienne Young has been dead for six years. She was 92.”

Dean slumped with a huff. “So, somebody’s wearing our dead lady to the prom,” Dean muttered.

Sam shook his head again. “I don’t think it’s demons. There wasn’t any sulfur in the area where Jeremy was killed, and – Dean, you SAW the body. It was totally WRECKED. Demons are way smarter than that. Corpse looks like it was mauled by a bear.”

Dean wrinkled his nose. “We thinkin’ ghoul?” he asked.

Sam nodded slowly. “Probably? Maybe. I don’t know. Something about this feels off.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Yeah, what else is new?” He took a sip from his beer and nodded to himself. “Think you’re right, though. Something’s definitely screwy.”

Sam flung the file on the table, rubbed his forehead with one hand, and put his hands on his hips. “I think we should look into some more reanimation lore; see if there’s anything we missed.”

“Reanimation,” Dean repeated skeptically. “Like Frankenstein? Zombies?”

Sam huffed. “Not necessarily, just… people coming back from the dead. Possession, resurrection, whatever. Anything we can find. Dad’s journal only has so much crammed into it.”

Dean smirked out of the corner of his mouth. “Maybe Jesus is still out there working miracles.”

Sam rolled his eyes and shucked his tie. “I’m taking a shower.”

“Good, you stink like grave dirt.”

Sam paused outside the bathroom door, hand on the knob. “Are you ok?” he asked suddenly. “You’ve been kind of… weird the past couple of days.”

Dean quirked an eyebrow, but otherwise did not react to Sam’s statement. “Weird how?” he asked, more like a statement than a question, like he was humoring his little brother.

Sam shrugged and waved a hand. “I don’t know, just. Weird.” He smirked a tiny bit. “Weirder than usual anyway.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “I’m fine,” he insisted. He raised the bottle to his lips again.

“Alright,” Sam sighed, finally stepping into the bathroom. The door clicked shut, and all was mostly silent once again.

Truth was that Dean was _not_ fine. Sure he was a strong, good looking guy who still had a  few years left in him (if some creepy crawly thing didn’t get him first), but he was not getting any younger. Cassie dumped him four and a half years ago and he hadn’t had a single meaningful relationship since. He was pushing _thirty_. His back ached, his knee twinged sometimes when he got out of the Impala after sitting there for too long, and he was still doing what he was doing when he was twelve and at his father’s beck and call. At least Sam tried college!

It was just a passing bout of frustration and directionlessness, he rationalized. Life on the road may have been all he’d ever known, but for a guy who saw new and increasingly crazy shit every day, you’d think he’d learn to switch it up a little.

Dean smashed the channel button on the remote angrily and grunted to himself. He’d watch Food Network for a while until Sam got out of the shower. It takes him like three years to shampoo all that hair, so Dean figured he could probably get through one more episode of Chopped before he was put to work again.

 

Sam’s idea of “making Dean useful” was sending him to the _library_ of all places. Dean and libraries didn’t really mix, and never have. Armed with a carefully composed list of topics – Egyptian rising gods, Jewish eschatology, Norse and Germanic Draugr myth, some poor bastard named Aristeas – he perused the aisles expecting dusty volumes with yellowed pages.

What he got was a whole lot of nothing.

“Excuse me,” Dean told the librarian with barely contained irritation, “These aren’t quite what I’m looking for.”

He flashed a tight smile as he held up a picture book on vampires.

“Do you have anything else on… Qing dynasty burial customs?” he asked, reading directly off of Sam’s list. God, he sounded like such a weirdo.

The librarian frowned, a little crease appearing between her eyes. “Hm… not that I know of.” She leaned forward, loosely clutching her glasses in one hand. “Whatever you’ve got is probably all we have. This isn’t exactly the most specialized library,” she murmured apologetically. “Maybe try the college campus; their research library is quite extensive,” she offered.

Dean huffed and fidgeted. Like hell he was trekking to a college campus. That was across town, and it was a Saturday. Kids were sure to be lounging around everywhere, getting in Dean’s way and putting themselves in danger, no doubt. “Well, thanks anyway,” he said, already turning away with the few books he did find under his arm.

“Although,” the woman called out, raising a hand to stop him. “You could try Castiel,” she said, eyes brightening like she had just found the perfect solution.

Dean furrowed his brow. “Cas-tee-el?” he pronounced slowly.

The librarian nodded kindly. “Yes, I’ve just remembered! He runs the little bookstore on 5th and Jefferson. Whenever someone has an odd request, we send them his way,” she said.

Dean pursed his lips. “Sure, thanks. I’ll just, um,” he said, waving the books in front of his nose with the intent of returning them to their proper shelves.

The woman tutted and reached out. “Oh, don’t be silly. Give me those, you go on ahead.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Dean said cheerfully, already on his way out the door.

Maybe he’d have better luck at the bookstore.

 

The ‘bookstore’ that the librarian had sent him to was not quite what Dean was expecting. The whole corner of the block that he was standing on used to be the property of an old glove factory from the 40s, which had been renovated a few years ago as an apartment complex and loft space. The whole thing was pretty swanky, honestly.

Except for the bottom floor, which couldn’t be more different from the rest of the street if Dean decided to paint the walls pink. Chiseled into the sidewalk was a narrow staircase, crumbling and dirty, and a little alcove above which hung a faded and frankly precarious-looking sign reading “Marv’s Stories” in brown and gold. He shook his head skeptically and descended the stairs.

The door was closed, but it swung quietly on its hinges when Dean gingerly clasped the doorknob like it was used to being opened. Dean popped his head in and could only stand, stunned, in the doorway for a moment as he took it all in.

The shop was an absolute MESS. Shelves everywhere, framing aisles that would be a little too close for comfort, and papers scattered on little tables here and there. Every book in the world could have been squeezed into this store for all Dean knew. The wallpaper was some kind of gaudy imitation fleur-de-lis thing in ivory and violet, yellowed and peeling in more than one place. And then there was the décor: weird things hanging on the walls like portraits of deer in ornate frames and an atlas in the corner (the atlas itself perhaps was not that strange and Dean was certainly no geography expert, but he was certain that someone had severely fucked up South America).

There were candles piled on top of dusty papers – probably a fire hazard, actually –nestled tightly in the shells of gouged out gourds, wind chimes hanging in the entry way that Dean nearly bumped his head on made of bottle caps and brass, a bluish-green stained glass bust of what looked like a bald Cleopatra on the top of a bookcase, surrounded by the same little shells and rocks that lined the windowsill behind the front desk like some sort of shrine. There were rows and rows of little leafy plants and cacti, sand all over the floor, a paisley plush elephant discarded on top of a shelf.

It looked like someone’s grandmother’s garage sale. That, or an episode of American Pickers.

Dean was just about to turn tail and run when someone came out of the back, holding a white ceramic mug in both hands carefully, eyes turned down.

Dean cleared his throat, and the man snapped his eyes up, a little startled. He didn’t spill a drop of whatever was in the mug. “Oh, hello.”

Gosh, Dean was not expecting that voice. He was expecting a mousy, bookish whisper, not the rough and gravelly timbre that rumbled forth from this guy. “Uh, are you Castiel?” he asked uncertainly.

The man gave him a small smile. “I am.”

Dean took this moment to appraise this ‘Castiel’ character. A shock of dark hair, mussed and sticking up in the front like he had been pushing it off of his face all morning, and probably the brightest blue eyes Dean had seen anywhere outside of anime porn. Truthfully he looked like he just rolled out of bed, stubbled like he hadn’t thought to shave that morning. The lumpy sweater he was wearing – a faded charcoal with worn leather patches on the elbows – looked wrinkled like he’d slept in it. His slacks were pressed, though, and dark like mahogany.

Dean cleared his throat again as he finished his not-so-casual up-and-down. “Uh, the librarian from town sent me. Guess she didn’t really have what I was looking for.”

Castiel tilted his head thoughtfully. “Well, what _are_ you looking for?”

Dean rubbed the back of his neck, knocking into a few wind chimes as he did so. “Uh, bunch of stuff, really. Death legends. Escha… and Qing dynasty?” He phrased the last part of that statement as a question, unsure he should really be here at all. Castiel was strange, maintaining excessive eye contact and standing completely still, mug still cradled in his hands. It was unnerving.

He nodded slowly, thankfully breaking his stare with Dean. “Are you looking for more pedantic pieces or literary work?” he asked.

Dean blinked. _What?_ “Um. Myth.”

This seemed to satisfy Castiel, who set the mug gingerly on the corner of the front desk, also cluttered and featuring an age-old cash register. “Mythology and lore are in the back. If you’ll follow me,” he instructed, setting off towards the back of the store. Dean was afraid to move even another step, but the faster he got those books Sam needed the faster he could go back to stabbing and shooting (which was really his area of expertise after all) and away from all this dust and nerd-dom. He trotted to the back to catch up with Castiel, narrowly avoiding the collapsed tower of books hidden by the side of the front desk.

The store wasn’t all that wide across but it did go fairly far back, and Dean found himself glancing at the walls as he went along. The weird aesthetic of the place continued no matter how deep they went into the stacks. He stopped at one point to admire a large, iron horseshoe hanging in between a light switch and a pine cone wreath that smelled strongly of fake Christmas cinnamon.

“It’s a sign of good luck,” Castiel informed him, nearly scaring the piss out of him from being so close.

“Dude, personal space,” Dean grumbled, shoving his hands into his pockets.

He felt compelled to stop and straighten a picture frame housing an old, frayed newspaper front page that was tipped so far on its side that Dean thought for sure that if it went another second it would simply slip to the ground and shatter. “Ah, here we are,” he heard Castiel mumble.

The other man was staring at another wall-high bookshelf, spines rough and cracked (and some didn’t even have a spine at all). “Western lore should be this section,” he said, nodding to the selection in front of him. “Eastern is located on the opposite wall, organized by year within the country. Let me know if you need help finding anything else,” Castiel said, flashing another small smile.

Dean tried to smile back, overwhelmed as he was. “Thanks, uh. Yeah.”

Castiel nodded with some finality and then turned away, heading towards the front of the shop again. Dean couldn’t help but watch him go – the guy walked briskly, with purpose and confidence like he _wasn’t_ the most peculiar little nut that Dean had ever met. Objectively attractive, sure, but definitely one odd duck.

Dean pulled out his phone and checked to see if he had any missed calls from Sam. Since he hadn’t heard anything back, he grabbed everything he could find that looked remotely helpful and stacked it up haphazardly in his arms. Most of the table of contents in the volumes he’d skimmed included some kind of mention of the afterlife, which seemed good enough for Dean really. He could rest his chin on the top of the pile to keep them all tucked away safely – (correctly) assuming that Castiel would probably be the kind of guy that would resent someone dropping and damaging something old and rare like this.

He wandered back up to the front counter where Castiel was flipping through a novel, surprise, surprise. His mug sat abandoned on the corner of the table still, and a gray cat was licking into it. Dean peered at the thing disdainfully, and the cat jumped away at his approach, leaving the mug alone. Dean happened to see that the mug had its handle on the _inside_ of the cup, and was currently half-covered in whatever tan liquid Castiel was drinking.

He pointed to it. “Isn’t that kind of…?” he asked, not really sure where he was going with the question in the first place.

Castiel followed his gaze and shrugged. “Minor manufacturing mishap. It’s still a perfectly good mug. Will this be all?” he asked, pointing to the stack Dean had inelegantly dropped on the counter.

“Yep. Should be. How much do I owe you?” he asked, already reaching for his wallet.

Castiel looked at him funny, like he couldn’t understand why Dean was offering to pay at all. “If you promise to bring them back, you can just take them for now,” he said.

Dean raised an eyebrow. “You’re just going to trust a total stranger with your stuff?” he asked slowly, making sure he understood. “On a promise?” This guy was more messed up than he thought.

Castiel shrugged again, a jerky, awkward movement. “Why not? Are you saying I _shouldn’t_ trust you?”

Dean laughed a little, unable to help himself. “Christ, you are something else, Cas,” he muttered, picking up the books again. His hand bumped against an ashtray/penny jar – it was a brass cast of someone’s jaw, painted the same gold as the sign outside. Teeth and all. This, for whatever reason, only made Dean laugh harder. “I’ll get these back to you soon, ok?”

Castiel was perfectly aware that the man before him was probably laughing at him, but he smiled anyway, his joy contagious. And his eyes crinkled so nicely when he laughed like that. The stranger was absolutely radiant. “No rush. There’s hardly a line,” he said, gesturing to the empty shop.

Dean laughed again and shook his head. “See ya.”

Castiel smiled to himself as he turned around. “I’m sure.”

The cat jumped back up on the desk as soon as Dean was gone.

 

When Dean got back to the motel, he was still reeling from his little adventure in the bookshop. He couldn’t believe he would have to go back _again_ once he and Sam were done combing through these. Well, Sam at least.

“Hey,” he called, setting the books on the small table by the television.

Sam frowned at him. “Hey. I sent you out hours ago, where did you go?” he asked.

Dean shrugged. “Library didn’t have what we needed. Bunch of kid’s books, some monk stuff. Went to a bookstore instead.” He gestured to the tomes he dropped in front of his brother. “They had this.”

Sam nodded. “Hope you didn’t spend too much on them,” he murmured, turning one over. His eyebrows shot up his forehead, fingering through some of the pages. “Whoa, these are OLD, Dean. Where did you even find these?”

Dean shrugged again and slumped into a chair. “I don’t know, man. Marv’s Stories?” he asked. “This guy Castiel runs it.”

“Huh. No kidding,” Sam murmured, only half paying attention as he flipped through the book.

Dean crossed his arms and rolled his eyes. “Dude’s crazy, Sammy. Like, I’m not kidding: the guy’s cuckoo for cocoa puffs. You should have seen this place.” He kicked his boots up on the table and frowned. “Actually, you’d probably like it.”

Sam huffed a little laugh and shut the book, spreading the rest out on the table around Dean’s feet. “Well, I’d say we have more than enough to work with at this point. You want to get started?” he asked.

Dean groaned. “Let me get a sandwich, first.”

“Really?” Sam asked drily.

“I haven’t eaten yet today!” Dean called back, already half out of the room.

 

Dean went back to Marv’s three days after he first went in.

There had been another killing, and they had made little progress in identifying whatever it was that was causing this whole mess. Only this time, they had a witness. The grief-stricken boyfriend of the victim had mentioned something thumping loudly behind them in their living room, and then a shadowed figure with sagging, green skin shoved him to the floor. It scratched him with its long, black fingernails. He couldn’t remember any more than that in the chaos.

So, back to the bookstore for Dean.

He was privately wondering to himself if he had imagined how ridiculous the store was, if his brain had just somehow exaggerated the whole experience in his absence. He sort of knew what to expect now, at least.

As Dean stepped through the doorway for the second time, he was made painfully aware that he had not been making it up. The store was as cluttered as ever. Castiel, today in a white collar shirt and a loose blue tie (on backwards, Dean noted with weird, misplaced affection), lounged comfortably against the front desk, typing away on his phone. He glanced up and smiled. “Hello,” he greeted softly. Castiel’s voice was like waves on a beach, commanding and soothing all at once. “You’re back.”

Dean held up the books as much as he could. “I said I would be.” He walked closer to the desk, avoiding the brass mandible ashtray. He was still a bit freaked out by the place, and the only part about the store that didn’t make him uncomfortable was Castiel himself, oddly enough. “Myth and lore in the back, right?” he asked.

Castiel frowned and reached forward. “Oh, I can –”

“Ah, that’s ok, I’m headed back there anyway,” Dean cut him off; already steering himself down an aisle he hoped wasn’t too messy along the floor.

Castiel followed him around the back of the desk and through the aisle, a bizarre inversion of their positions the last time Dean was here. “You didn’t find what you were looking for?” he asked somewhat sadly.

Dean shrugged and focused on keeping his feet steady. “Nah. I mean. Made some headway, I guess, but I don’t think this is quite what I need.”

Castiel frowned behind him. “Well, if you’re still set on working with Chinese legend, it may be worth taking a look at some Mahayana Buddhist myths. Oftentimes cultural stories, especially fables, are adapted from religious material,” he offered.

Dean’s head was sort of spinning. Castiel had a way of talking that just settled in Dean’s chest, but he never knew what the guy was actually saying. “Um, sure. If you think that would be, uh.”

Castiel smiled. “I’ll go dig some up for you.”  He paused and tilted his head in a way that reminded Dean of a bird. “I don’t actually know your name.”

“Dean,” Dean responded, finally reaching the shelf he needed. “I’m Dean.” He spared what he hoped was a friendly glance over the top of the pile under his chin.

Castiel continued to smile as Dean set to shelving the books he had taken out. “I’ll be right back then, Dean.”

“Thanks, Cas,” he said, tilting his head to read the spines and not sparing him another glance, focused as he was.

Castiel hid the little flush on his face well he thought, as he set off towards the impressive religion section. _Cas._ What a sweet sound that was. And there was something so appealing about a gentle, leather-covered, bow-legged man with interest in obscure literature.

He was very glad that Dean had come in again, if only to get another peek at that gorgeous smile.

Dean’s phone rang as he was putting one of the books back on the shelf. “Yello,” he chirped into the phone, wedging it between his ear and his shoulder.

“Hey, are you at the bookstore?” Sam asked, a little breathless.

Dean bit his lip as he tried to wedge the book in his hands back into its appropriate place. “Yeah, why? Need something?”

“Don’t return the Chinese zombie myth! I wasn’t done with it.”

“You ever think there’s something wrong with us? Think about what you just said, man,” Dean muttered.

“Just bring it back, Dean.” There was a click as Sam hung up the phone.

Dean sighed, pulling down the book he had just put back on the shelf. Castiel chose that moment to return with two decent-sized handbooks. He furrowed his brow. “Problem?” he asked, glancing down at the phone.

Dean waved a hand. “Kid brother being dramatic. I’m gonna need to take this one back,” he said, holding it up for Castiel.

The other man smiled a little, looking nostalgic. “Ah, yes, I know a thing or two about dramatic brothers. Come on then, if that’s all you need.”

Dean began following Castiel up the aisle again. “You’ve got a brother?” he asked conversationally.

“Several, in fact,” Castiel said.

“Older or younger?” Dean asked.

Castiel chuckled lightly. “Older. Though oftentimes even my little sister gangs up on me.”

Dean whistled. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

Castiel waved a hand over his shoulder. “It’s not all bad. I can handle myself.” They reached the front of the store and Castiel spun, holding the books out for Dean to take. “Don’t lose them,” he told him playfully.

Dean smiled genuinely. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

As he turned to go, he came face-to-face with another bookshelf, nearly colliding with the edge of it. He stepped back, startled, but the row of books was bright and colorful, reminding him of something just on the tip of his tongue. He tilted his head and skimmed the titles, grinning. “You carry Vonnegut?” he blurted.

Castiel blinked and nodded. “Him, and others. Are you a fan?” he asked.

Dean smirked a little, looking down at the books with vague remembrance. “Sure. I mean, I haven’t read _that_ much by him. But what I’ve read I liked.”

Castiel smiled. “If you’re interested, we also carry similar authors. Palahniuk, Clarke, Vance, Adams.”

Dean pointed to Castiel, turning and looking. “Palahniuk. Fight Club, right?”

Castiel nodded, smiling wider. “Right.” He hesitated before adding, “Though I think Lullaby is my favorite by him, truthfully.”

Dean turned back to the shelf. “I liked Rant a lot,” he said quietly, almost shyly.

Castiel grinned soft and gummy, all the while maintaining unflinching eye contact. “That’s a good one, too,” he murmured, ducking his head slightly and nothing but interested.

Dean browsed the shelf for a while more before his face began to change. His countenance lost that youthful glow, the bright eyed enthusiasm that Castiel was used to seeing in a bookstore slowly draining away, like Dean was pulling himself back. He was closed off, and Castiel didn’t like it one bit – he’d been vocal and intriguing from the moment he stepped into the shop, asking questions and looking curiously at all the decorations.

To hide that away hurt Castiel more than he cared to admit.

“Well, good to know.” Dean smiled again, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes, and nodded at Castiel. “I’ll see you later, Cas. Thanks for the Buddhism.”

Castiel nodded. “You’re welcome, Dean. I’ll be seeing you.”

Dean nodded back at him in passing, and he couldn’t believe the way his eyes lingered over the curve of Cas’s shoulder, the veins in his hands.

He walked out of the bookstore shaking his head. What did he think he was doing, making small talk with Castiel about books and shit? Painful as it was, Dean’s failed relationship with Cassie taught him a very important lesson: when you’re a hunter, you never ever _ever_ be yourself.

It only sets you up for heartbreak later. It’s better to not get attached, especially if you’re working a case.

He swatted at a bee circling his head angrily as he dumped his stack of books into the passenger side of the Impala. They were only going to be in town for a few more days anyway to clean up this mess, and then poof, off to the next job. Dean didn’t have the time (or the energy) to get invested in some quirky little book worm. Cas, Cassie… man, did he have a type.

He slammed the Impala door angrily and twisted the key, frowning at the steering wheel. “Hope your books are freaking worth it,” he grumbled to himself, thinking nothing but angry thoughts at the meddlesome brother of his that cursed him to the bookstore in the first place.

 

Sam was comparing the news articles on the two deaths when Dean came back with Castiel’s books. They sifted through it for a couple of hours, spit balling back and forth, until Dean went out to get the two of them food. Leave the college boy to the research; he’d have it cracked in no time.

Dean came back and tossed Sam his Burger King bag. Sam unwrapped it with a hint of a scowl and sighed down at the newspapers. “Well, we’ve been over everything and so far nothing’s really matched up. I thought the Draugr was a good guess, but…” Sam shrugged as he bit into his still warm burger. “What do you think?”

Dean shrugged. “I still think it’s a ghoul. Don’t make it more complicated than it is, Sammy. What would some Scandinavian mummy be doing roaming the beautiful plains of… what state are we even in?”

Sam waved a hand. “You’re right; it’s probably just a ghoul. First death was in a graveyard, that’s generally where they tend to hang out, and even the super strength fits with knocking the boyfriend to the ground.” Sam sighed again and put away the rest of his burger. “Cool. We’ll set up a trap tomorrow. Right now I think I’m going to go cross eyed if I read any more articles.”

Dean chuckled and settled into his own motel bed, kicking off his shoes. “We can spend tomorrow morning sharpening the machetes,” he said off-handedly, digging around in his bag for the bonus fry.

Sam frowned. “Wow. Maybe there IS something wrong with us,” he commented.

Dean just snorted. “Embrace it. ‘Night, Samantha.”

“Whatever, jerk.”

 

Maybe Dean was a glutton for punishment, or maybe he really was on his way to the hardware store to pick up some rope like he told Sam, but either way, he finds himself walking through Castiel’s door again the next day.

“Dude. WHAT are you eating?” Dean asked, eyeing Castiel’s poor excuse for a sandwich mournfully.

Castiel glanced down at the soggy mass between his hands. “A sandwich?” he replied, like he wasn’t quite sure of his answer.

Dean groaned softly. “That’s not a sandwich, that’s a wet newspaper.”

Castiel narrowed his eyes at him. “What can I help you with today, Dean?”

Dean shrugged. “I don’t know. Just browsing. I won’t be long, I promise.”

Castiel nodded to himself and looked down at the desk, presumably at another book. There was a barely-there frown etched onto that pretty face of his, and Dean didn’t know enough about the guy to tell whether it was an I’m-upset-frown or merely a this-is-my-thinking-face-frown. He hoped he wasn’t bothering him. There was never anyone else in the shop when Dean came in; maybe Castiel was a little miffed at having his quiet time interrupted.

“I’m not bugging you, am I?” Dean asked. More like _looking for an excuse to leave before this crush gets even more out of control._

Castiel snapped his head up and his frown deepened. “Of course not. Why do you ask?”

Dean shrugged. “No reason. Nothing. You’re frowning,” he couldn’t help saying.

Castiel’s face reddened and the word _adorable_ flashed briefly across Dean’s mind before he got a god damn hold of himself again. “That’s… just how my face is. I like having you around very much, Dean,” Castiel murmured, tidying up some clutter on the desk and hastily retreating to the back room. “Just yell if you need me,” he muttered after himself.

Dean blinked and watched the empty doorway. “Huh,” he murmured, wandering back to the myth section solely for the familiarity.

_He likes having me around?_

It was the first piece of hope that Dean had since he got here, a little spark in his chest that lit the _maybe just one time_ thoughts in his head. Dangerous and intimate thoughts.

Dean kept finding weird excuses to come back to the bookstore.

Their neighbor Kevin needed books for school. Charlie was raving about this poetry series by Maya Angelou and her birthday was coming up. Bobby needed some translation material. Ash could use a little more mental stimulation anyway.

Dean was in there so often that he’d figured out Castiel’s weird filing system all on his own. He walked quickly and confidently through the stacks because he always knew where he was going, and could fix the tilted picture frame on the wall without even looking. Free moments were spent lingering in the doorway and helping Castiel clean up the aisles, softly uttered jokes and confessions swapped between the two of them.

Sometimes he’d open something up and there would be a pressed flower inside, or a postcard, and Dean would ask Cas about it and he would smile and launch into a detailed memory of where exactly he had come across it. It was like he’d lived a hundred lifetimes instead of just one, and crammed all of those important experiences into that one shop on the corner.

In all those little details, Dean could see that the shop was loved and well cared for. There was something intrinsically charming about the place and its wacky owner, dusty and wryly whimsical as it was. Castiel was pretty cool, a lover of the absurd and the depressingly, dramatically poetic.

Dean knew he liked peaches and tomatoes and ate them both the same way. The locals thought he was magic. He only ate sandwiches like the occasional PB&J, but usually just ham and mayo. They were very poorly put together and like the mother hen he is, Dean always stopped at the cuisine place across the street before he went into Marv’s and bought Cas a sandwich. And if sometimes he left a little excerpt from a Lorca poem and a doodle of a flower on the wrapper in blue Sharpie, nobody had to know but them.

Sam just couldn’t figure out when the hell his brother started reading so much.

“Hey, I’m gonna make a coffee run,” Sam muttered around eleven, rubbing his eyes. Dean was still staring at the link chart, squinting at the newsprint for something they might have missed. “You want?” Sam asked around a yawn.

Dean shrugged one shoulder. “Black,” he said. He didn’t even turn to look at him. He got so caught up in the work sometimes, and Sam knew his brother was frustrated with how little they’d actually accomplished since rolling into town.

Sam sighed and pushed his hair behind his ears. “Alright.”

“You wanna take the car?”

Sam waved a hand. “Need to stretch my legs. I’ll walk.”

“There’s a 24-hour a little up 5th,” Dean informed him, twanging a piece of red yarn.

Sam saluted him and grabbed his windbreaker. “Sure thing. Be back soon.”

“Kay.”

The Starbucks was only a few blocks from the motel, and the air outside was sweet and cool. There were no clouds in the sky, only stars, and Sam sipped his coffee happily as he stood under the awning of the diner Dean had recommended just glancing around. His eyes lingered down the block.

Caddy corner from where Sam was standing, a tilted gold and wooden sign hung over a recessed doorway. The lights were still on, glowing softly in the window. He could just barely make out the “M” before he was crossing the street, underneath the blinking red traffic light.

And there it was, in the flesh. Marv’s Stories.

Reverently, Sam walked down the steps with the two cups of coffee in his hands, staring up at the old sign. “So this is where he goes,” Sam muttered to himself.

The lights were on. The door was propped open. That looked like a good enough invitation to him.

He stepped through the door cautiously, glancing around at all the amazing things decorating the place. Looking up at the wind chimes made from bottle caps and the candle holders made from gourds, Sam was suddenly overcome with nostalgia for a DIY childhood that was not so long ago – memories of how he and Dean used to find pleasure in the most random discarded objects because they couldn’t afford the real stuff. Traveling the country with Dad, they picked up fun-shaped rocks and sticks and half-melted action figures and soiled comic books with the pages missing from the back to occupy their time in the Impala. They would just make up their own endings to fill the space, played games they invented in the backseat, and every single laugh and smile and relic of Americana were the best parts of Sam’s life. They made living on the road a little bit fun for a kid who wanted to be anywhere else but right there in that car.

And Sam knew just by looking at everything around him, from the homemade baubles to the cracked spines in the stacks, that Castiel cared for weary, broken things. That he loved them even though they were strange and unconventional, and gave them a new life.

Maybe this mysterious bookstore owner really was good for Dean, who’d never been able to settle down and take care of himself for more than one day at a time.

God _damn it,_ he was getting teary-eyed and sentimental in the doorway of a run-down bookstore.

A man brushing his hands off on his dress pants poked out from the center aisle. Sam’s eyes snapped right to him, and the man froze. “Oh, good evening,” he murmured, smoky and comforting. “Can I help you find something?”

Sam smiled broadly, hoping that the tears clinging to his lashes wouldn’t fall and embarrass him. “My name’s Sam Winchester. I’ve heard really great things about this place.”

Castiel grinned in gentle understanding.

 

They stayed up talking for hours. Sam offered Castiel Dean’s coffee the instant Castiel pulled up a second chair to the register, and Castiel’s cat – whom he claimed was a stray but was secretly given the name ‘Hannah’ – joined the two of them by curling into a fishbowl lined with loose change underneath the front desk. Sam discovered that every single one of his observations about Castiel were correct. He was a soft-spoken, strong-hearted man.

And, admittedly, liked Dean very much.

He shut the door to the motel room quietly, hoping Dean wouldn’t be too angry that he hadn’t answered his phone. “Dean?” he asked into the quiet room.

“Just where the hell’s my coffee?” his brother griped from his bed.

Sam smiled and shook his head fondly. “That stuff stunts your growth anyway. You don’t need any help in that department.”

“Bitch!”

“Jerk.”

 

Once 1 am rolled around, the brothers gathered up their duffle bags and sharp knives and hoofed it over to the cemetery. “This better be quick,” Dean grumbled. “I need my four hours.”

“You are such a baby sometimes,” Sam groaned, rolling his eyes.

Dean made a noise in the back of his throat and cut through the lock on the gates effortlessly with a pair of bolt cutters. “After you,” he muttered, waving Sam forward.

They set up base behind one of the larger monuments, an obelisk dedicated to some war general and covered in ivy. Dean peeked around the edge as he unsheathed his bowie knife. He inspected the edge for a moment before shaking his head and saying. “Think I’m gonna go with the Belloto,” he said conversationally.

Sam snorted. “Good choice, Danny Trejo. Watch your upswing.”

“Yeah, I got it, thanks.” There was a low groaning off a little in the distance, and they both turned to listen.

Dean whipped his head around. “Sixty feet? Fifty?”

Sam nodded once. “Let’s go.”

In just twenty minutes the pair had a little blood splattered across their chests and a dead ghoul in the form of old lady Vivienne Young behind them, decapitated and ready for disposal. “That wasn’t so bad,” Dean said, breathing heavy.

“Guess we won’t be staying in town much longer,” Sam said, still half-dazed coming down from the adrenaline high.

Dean tensed and tried to ignore the little ache in his chest. “Yeah,” he agreed. He wiped some blood from his face. “We gotta return Cas’s books,” he murmured.

Sam sighed in sympathy. “Yeah, ok. Tomorrow.”

Dean nodded slowly, sheathing his knife. “Tomorrow.”

 

“Hey, Cas,” Dean called sullenly, stepping into the shop. Would it be for the last time?

Castiel grinned and set down his newspaper, revealing clean, blue checkered plaid that matched his eyes. “Dean,” he greeted happily. “Here, let me help you,” he said, already rounding the desk.

“Sure,” Dean said this time, trying to keep the emotion out of his voice.

The large stack of books in his arms suddenly cut down to half its size. His fingers brushed Castiel’s where the slid beneath the book covers. Cas smiled at him over the top, and Dean tried to smile back in a way that wouldn’t convey his distress. “Shall we?” Cas asked, nodding to the back.

Dean nodded and followed him to the mythology section.

He was going to miss this weird, little place. The smell of dry paper, dust motes swirling in sunbeams like the ballet performance of a lifetime, the tiny flowering cacti in the window. He was going to miss this weird, little man most of all. Backwards tie and everything.

As he walked by and like an act of God, the giant iron horseshoe on the wall tipped over and fell directly at Dean’s feet.

Castiel turned around, alarmed. “Dean? Are you alright?”

Dean stared down over the pile of books in his arms at the horseshoe. It was directly in his path, right in front of both his feet. It couldn’t have been more intentional if he had placed it there himself.

 _It’s a sign of good luck_ , Castiel had said once.

He looked up, met Castiel’s concerned blue eyes, and could only blink. It had to be a sign – the universe wishes you well, Dean Winchester, in your quest to woo this dorky book keeper.

Screw it.

Dean set the books down on the nearest shelf and carefully stepped over the horseshoe before he took Castiel’s face in his hands.

He swallowed the surprised sound from Cas’s lips for his own, drinking deeply of him and pulling him as close as he could get. He was crushing the edges of the books in Cas’s hands into both their rib cages as they kissed, but he couldn’t have cared less for them. His eyes slipped shut as he angled his head, and he vaguely registered the sound of paper hitting the ground.

Cas’s hands came up to grip Dean’s arms a moment later.

When they finally parted with foreheads touching, Dean sighed, “Call me sometime,” into the space between them.

Castiel grinned and squeezed his shoulders. “You got it.”

Dean had never felt luckier.

 

They had a little trouble getting Dean to the front of the store again. Dean had to stop every two minutes and kiss Cas – the back of his neck, the bolt of his jaw, just anything he could reach – with a hand curled around his side. It was only fair that Cas respond by shoving Dean into the stacks and returning the favor.

They were holding hands by the time they made it to the register.

“I was serious about calling,” Dean told him quietly.

Castiel nodded. “So was I. Here,” Cas said, sliding a pad of Post It notes closer to Dean. “Write it down,” he whispered in his ear, nipping at the shell.

A shiver ran through Dean and he picked up a pen. _Yes, sir,_ he thought happily, scribbling down his crappy ten digits. He had a brief moment of panic about _which_ number to give him – back up cell? Back up BACK UP cell? What if this one gets trashed? What if I can’t hustle my way through the payment this month? Should I leave two numbers? – but he just put the first one he could think of and smiled reassuringly. Cas wouldn’t even have to know what Dean did for a living. He could make this work, at least for a little while.

“Thank you,” Castiel murmured, slipping a hand into Dean’s back pocket. “Is your brother expecting you back tonight?” he asked, squeezing down.

Dean bit back a yelp. “Well, uh,” he replied breathlessly.

Cas laughed against his jaw and kissed the spot. “I don’t usually do this,” he muttered.

“Do what?” Dean asked, in between kissing him slow and deep.

Castiel tugged on Dean’s sleeve with his free hand. “Ask men to disrobe in my bookstore,” he shot back. Dean huffed a laugh and was reaching for his zipper when a knock sounded at the door.

Well, maybe not a knock. More like a ‘thump.’

Castiel groaned lightly at the intrusion and Dean just nudged him. “Don’t answer it. Maybe they’ll go away,” he whispered hopefully.

“If you’re _quiet_ ,” Castiel hissed back.

There was another thump, louder this time, and Castiel reluctantly pulled away from him. “One moment, please,” he called, straightening his shirt.

He didn’t get his moment; the door suddenly burst in, old lock snapping hollowly.

In the doorway stood the mangled corpse of Vivienne Young, the ghoul Dean had supposedly left in the graveyard.

“Shit,” Dean wheezed.

He made a grab for Castiel the same moment Vivienne came rushing into the room. She launched like a deer over the stuff on the floor, hopping with impressive speed and finesse on top of stacks of books and small tables. She made a swipe for Castiel with her long fingernails, and Dean just barely managed to pull him out of the way. “Cas!”

No ghoul survives decapitation. They must have been wrong.

Vivienne snarled, blood dripping from her wrinkled, blue mouth with flat and jaundiced eyes. Dean blanched. He left his gun in the car.

He dragged Cas away from the desk as quickly as he could; Cas swiped up the Post It note pad and the pen. “Get in the back,” Dean said, shielding Cas’s body a little with his own and shoving him away. The thing pretending to be Vivienne grabbed him by the collar of his jacket and he went hurling backwards into a bookshelf. Sir Walter Scott rained heavily down upon him, and he grunted in pain.

Dean blindly hurled a book at it as it reached for Castiel again. Cas clutched the Post It pad and the pen tightly to his chest, and Dean threw another book. “Hey! Ugly!”

Vivienne whipped around and launched herself at Dean, clawing for his eyes. Dean kicked her in the abdomen and rolled her off of him, quickly scrambling to his feet. “Go, go!” Dean hissed at Castiel.

He just couldn’t catch a break, could he? He just got the guy to make out with him; it would be just cruel for him to be ripped to shreds right in front of Dean’s eyes.

Vivienne came at him again but he managed to hold her at arm’s length.

“Dean!”

Dean only turned for a fraction of a second to look over at Cas, but Vivienne used the momentum against him and sent him crashing to the ground. He scrambled backwards on the floor as Vivienne stalked after him, bent legs sliding on the floor.

Suddenly, Castiel darted between Dean and the creature. Dean was just about to yell at him for losing his mind, but Cas slapped a yellow Post It note with some sort of intricate doodle on Vivienne’s forehead before he could say anything. Miraculously, she stood still with the Post It affixed to her wrinkled face, arms raised and extended like a real zombie.

Cas turned and offered Dean his hand, and Dean took it to haul himself up. “Outside, now!” Dean barked at him, leading him out the front door.

“ _Dean_ –” Castiel repeated insistently.

Dean didn’t want to hear Castiel’s breathless, terrified questions. He didn’t want to hear the ultimate rejection he knew must be coming once he inevitably explained. “Get in the car. Quickly,” he said instead.

“It’s a jiangshi!” Castiel exclaimed, turning to Dean with wide eyes as soon as the driver’s side door slammed shut.

Dean was too busy shoving the car into reverse and squealing away from the curb. “Hang on!” he growled, speeding towards the hotel and hopefully leaving that zombie in the dust.

Castiel lurched against the car window for a moment before sliding closer to Dean. “Dean – it’s stunned, it’s alright. I drew a bagua; it won’t be going anywhere,” he told him.

Dean rounded a hard gaze over to Castiel and frowned. “How the hell do you know? And you almost got yourself killed!” What was he thinking, stepping in between them like that? And for Dean’s sake!

Castiel looked unimpressed. “I’ve read all same books you have, you know. What you’re hunting is a jiangshi, a zombie that appears in _Qing dynasty Chinese mythology_ ,” he said, smiling a little off the adrenaline. “I recognized it by the green skin. And the hopping, naturally,” he added.

Dean was shaking his head dumbly. “Hey, come on, who said anything about hunting?”

Castiel actually rolled his eyes. “I assume that’s why you’re here. Brothers, strangers, roll into town and then start picking up lore books? Followed by a zombie attack? You two aren’t the most subtle,” he teased.

Dean didn’t find his response all that funny. “Do you know how to kill it?” Dean asked.

“I’m sorry?”

He turned to face the man again, staring into those wide, earnest eyes. “Do you know how to kill it?” Dean asked a little softer. “We tried cutting its head off and that didn’t work, apparently.”

Castiel smiled again, pleased that Dean was allowing him to help. “Weapons made from peach wood. Or setting it on fire works just fine, too.”

Dean found it in himself to chuckle and glanced back at Castiel, sitting patiently in the passenger side. He was twisted in his seat to face Dean, one arm thrown back over his seat. His other hand was steady on his thigh. There was a slight smile still on his face. “You’re, um. Taking this well.”

Castiel shrugged. “There are too many examples of monster myth from all over the world, all throughout history, for it to just be coincidence. Working with literature, you learn to keep an open mind,” he confided. He toyed with a loose thread on his sweater. “And I trust you, Dean. I’m sure you know what you’re doing.”

Dean nodded slowly, feeling like he was living that scene in The Grinch when his heart swelled three sizes. The one person he’d felt close to in years, whom he _really_ liked and who seemed to like him back, knew about monsters and hunting and hadn’t run screaming yet. In fact, he was trying to _help_.

He really was one odd duck, this guy. God love him.

“You’re sure about the fire?” he asked, embarrassingly choked up.

Castiel nodded. “Positive. It’s in all the lore.”

And Dean had never thought that phrase sexy before in his life, but coming from Cas’s mouth? Damn. Dean pulled a U-Turn and headed back towards the bookstore. “Then let’s torch that sucker.”

 

Once the jiangshi was roasted in the parking lot, Sam and Dean both sat Castiel down in their motel room to explain everything – who they were, where they came from, what else was really out there, blah blah blah – they even let Castiel thumb through their father’s notebook. All he had to say in response was, “Your father has beautiful handwriting.”

So he understood when Dean told him that he had to leave even though he really liked him. He had to get rid of the other things hiding in the dark out there. He had to find his dad. He had to solve the mystery of what had happened to their mother so very long ago. Castiel supported him one hundred percent, and even had a few tips he’d read to add into John’s entries to keep them safe. He’d read every legend out there – at that point, Castiel would have made a better hunter than both the Winchesters combined. Castiel was a goldmine of information; they both agreed that they would have no problem consulting him on future cases.

That was all well and good for Dean, because now they had an actual reason to stop into town later on down the road.

“I’m coming back,” he promised, after kissing Castiel breathless against the Impala’s passenger side door.

Castiel just kissed him again. “I trust you.”


End file.
